


Passing Through

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Beaches, Because the Boys Deserve It, Day At The Beach, Dean is a Good Friend, Depressed Castiel, Heavy Angst, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, Massage, Post-Hunt, Some Humor, You Know Like a Good Boyfriend, and more - Freeform, back massages, but no actual sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-11-04 08:21:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10987116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: “Laguna Beach,” Dean replies without a hint of hesitation, his smile back in full swing—quite literally, because that’s the motion it’s making with not one, but two faces staring at him like he’s finally lost his mind. “What? It’s a day’s worth of driving back to the Bunker, so I say we may as well drive until we hit sand and actually relax for once. Besides, it’s a beautiful day.”Sam’s the first to speak up: “Are you sure you don’t wanna stop in Saint Louis instead?”Dean narrows his eyes. “What? Why?”“So I can get revenge on that shapeshifter that tricked me into killing my real brother twelve years ago.”





	Passing Through

**Author's Note:**

> I saw everyone else writing these when I searched under the tag and I thought I'd give it a go! It got a little (a lot) angstier than I thought, but what good fics don't, right? (Right?)

 

“Hey Dean, mile marker 7.”

Dean huffs a small laugh. The weather-beaten sign shakes as they zoom past it, leaving the bird perched on it to ruffle its feathers and head west, away from the 385 horsepower engine of one hell-bent ’67 Chevy Impala. “Who knows, maybe Constance will pay you another visit.”

“Sure, I’ve always wanted to be _deboned alive,”_ scoffs Sam.

“Hey, it’s probably a tickle compared to Meg. Or Lucifer.”

Sam shakes his head. “Remember when the fate of my future rested on an interview?”

“And now the fate of _the_ future rests on us, so I’d say we’ve both moved up in the world, haven’t you?”

Sam nods appreciatively as the other member in the car stirs awake with a less appreciative groan. Dean doesn’t have to look in his rearview to know it’s “Cas. Welcome back to the world, buddy.”

Dean hears the low moan from the leather upholstery and then Cas’s voice, with more grate than usual, asks, “What happened?” He sits up only to have the sunlight step on his eyes, “how long was I—?”

“Just a few hours,” Dean responds. “Calvin said to give it time and you’ll be at full charge again.”

“If by full charge you mean feel like a stampede came at me _full charge_ , then that would be correct.”

The angel shifts languidly again so he can rest his head on the rear deck. Dean chances a glance through the rearview— _just_ to make sure Cas is okay—and watches as Cas’s Adam’s apple swims in the opposite direction of the current as he swallows, to his discomfort. Dean wets his lips and turns back to the road.

“What were you guys talking about?” he asks.

Dean looks to Sam with what he hopes is an unreadable expression. Dean sees a slight pinch in his brother’s eyebrows, but Sam starts first anyway, “Um… we’re back in the town we worked our first case in.”

“What happened?” Cas probes further. It’s obvious to Dean he’s trying to distract himself, and since Sam is more entertaining when he _sleeps,_ Dean takes the initiative to continue with the story:

“This bitch, Constance, that’s what happened,” Dean says, mustering a laugh again: “It doesn’t exactly give us a prickle in our memory boners, but that’s what Constance was after: giving guys boners— _taken_ guys. That and running people’s cars off the road. She would prey on unfaithful men in this scanty white dress, and anyway, Sam defeated her. Ruined the car—”

“Oh please,” Sam interjects, glancing back at Cas as he says, “he wrecked it way worse on that ghoulpire case in Quaker Valley.”

“And _you_ wrecked the upholstery,” Dean fires back. “What was her name? Piper?”

“I put down a blanket! Which I certainly don’t recall you doing when you brought Anna in here.”

“Hey, I was conceived back here, alright? So technically, Dad ruined it first.”

Dean cringes at his own comeback, but it does the job of quieting Sam. Then he hears another shift in the leather and when he looks in the rearview mirror again, he sees Cas with slightly wider eyes, trying to prop himself up before he settles back into the same position with the slow shake of his head. “Nope. Not even two generations of Winchester spermatozoa can move me from where I’m at. Where are we headed, anyway?”

“Laguna Beach,” Dean replies without a hint of hesitation, his smile back in full swing—quite literally, because that’s the motion it’s making with not one, but two faces staring at him like he’s finally lost his mind. “What? It’s a day’s worth of driving back to the Bunker, so I say we may as well drive until we hit sand and actually relax for once. Besides, it’s a beautiful day.”

Sam’s the first to speak up: “Are you sure you don’t wanna stop in Saint Louis instead?” 

Dean narrows his eyes. “What? Why?”

“So I can get revenge on that shapeshifter that tricked me into killing my _real_ brother twelve years ago.”

Dean scoffs before looking in the back again. “Cas?”

Cas shrugs and starts to sit up again to he’s braced against both front seats, between the boys. “I mean, I think it’s completely random, but I haven’t seen the beach. And the thought of lying on a towel over hot sand sounds like ideal bedding for a cat nap—as long as the towel isn’t the one Sam laid over the backseat.”

Dean taps the steering wheel a couple times in quick succession with a broad smile. “That’s the spirit!”

**

The sand shimmers like molten gold, cooled down only by the waves that sweep the shore. It’s an orchestral piece, a drum solo: As the symbols crash, so does the water. The seagulls overhead act as the wood section that give rise to the few cicadas that fly around and prey _on_ wood. The air, which has a briny flavor but tastes nonetheless fresh, and the sun work in tandem as the composers of this ensemble. For an average human standing amongst it all, molding insoles out of the sand, it’s quite the sight to drink in.

Dean’s just one of those average humans—you know, aside from the whole hunting monsters thing. He’s always wanted to go to the beach. When he was little, the idea of traveling the countryside sounded like an adventure. But his dad didn’t care about stopping for the World’s Largest Ball of Twine, let alone the beach. He was more interested in the _un_ seen, the things that people typically have to pay to experience.

But this… this is amazing. Beautiful, even. And Dean doesn’t throw around that word.  

They don’t really have any towels other than the ones they’ve stolen from motels that have questionable stains on them, but Cas seems to mind the less of the three of them as he and Sam set up base camp. Cas shrugs out of his trenchcoat, shoes, and socks, and rolls up the sleeves of his strictly white blouse (he even unbuttons it to rival the great Tony Manero, like that night in Rexford when Cas went on what they thought was his first date). Then he lays one of the towels down, and parks himself there.

The towel is too small for Cas’s frame, only going up to the backs of his knees, but Cas curls into it, positioning himself with his hands under his duffel, which he uses as a pillow, and bringing his legs closer to his chest.

“You weren’t kidding about taking a siesta,” Dean scoffs.

Cas faces him with such seriousness, even lying on his side like he is, and says, “I don’t kid about sleep.”

“I don’t get it. Since when do you need to sleep?” Dean asks. “I know Calvin said to give the spell some time to wear off, but should it really be taking so long?”

Cas’s mouth twitches, and then he’s turning so he’s resting on his back. “Can you put sunscreen on me? It’s in the duffel bag at the bottom.”

“Uh… sure, yeah,” Dean replies as he moves closer to Cas to reach the duffel.

Dean doesn’t have to search around too long with mostly long, white sleeves and various blue ties to find the lotion. Cas starts to sit up until his back faces Dean. Even through the cotton, he can see the faint outline of the creases where his shoulder muscles meet his tanned skin, running like rivers along the broad plain of his back, including the one running perpendicular down his spine.

Dean catches some salt in his throat the same time Cas unbuttons his shirt the rest of the way, leaving both men’s upper halves exposed in the same space. He clears his throat and squeezes the tube a little too hard, forming a mountain of white cream in the palm of his hand.

He rubs his hands together and starts tentatively at his shoulders, massaging a little, careful not to startle him _or_ Cas with the new sensation. Cas seems to lean into it though when Dean slides his hands over his shoulder blades and into those same creases and journeys as far as the apex of his hips before he squeezes some more lotion onto his hands and moves up to Cas’s arms, and _wow,_ all that time spent rescuing Dean from Hell and all paid off.

“I don’t know,” Cas says, letting his head fall back a little, and Dean has to hold back a nervous laugh, because they probably look like Patrick Swayze and Demi Moore in _Ghost_ and he’s not sure how that happened, “Ever since I fell, I’ve just felt out of it. I have my grace back, so everything is working, but I’m… not.”

Dean’s laugh washes away with the tide as soon as those words grace Cas’s lips and leave behind a shadow of guilt as he replies, “Cas, that sounds a lot like depression.”

Cas shrugs beneath Dean’s hands in response, which gives Dean all the more reason to keep massaging him. After a few more minutes, Cas’s face eases into a small, but nonetheless present smile. “Thank you, Dean.”

“Better than the Magic Fingers?”

“ _Much_ better than the Magic Fingers,” Cas confirms. “May I?”

Dean hands the lotion to Cas before turning around himself.

There’s a pause between them as they look out onto the ocean, Cas working his strong, calloused fingers over Dean’s battle-worn back, repeating the same ministrations as Dean did to him. The cicadas have since quieted, but the seagulls and the tide are both louder than ever.

Sam’s waist-deep in the water, collecting what looks like seashells and other jewels from the ocean. His hair’s a mess, of course, sticking up in every direction. It reminds Dean of when they were younger, and he had to give Sam his baths. The kid absolutely _feared_ being wet; he would kick, scream, yell, and splash away.

Sam grew up fast. He didn’t have time to fear anything too long before he was shooting at it. But he grew up a good kid, and makes an even better man. Dean prides himself on that.

Dean’s shaken from that thought when Cas pats his shoulders to let him know he’s done.

“If you want to lay here and sleep, I’ll sleep with you,” Dean says, turning around so his back faces the beach. “But if you want to go out into the ocean…”

Cas’s eyes, which match the ocean to a tee, drop to Dean’s outstretched hand.

Another pause. Cas looks from the towel beneath him to Dean, and then at his hand.

Cas chooses Dean’s hand.

“Oh,” Dean says after he hauls them both to their feet. He bends down and grabs the sunscreen, squirting some onto his hand again, and uses both to cup Cas’s face, gently massaging the cream into his cheeks. Cas’s mouth parts after Dean’s hands slide off, and before he can say anything or do that little head tilt that he does when he’s confused, Dean replies with an equally spread smile, “It’s my turn to watch over you, Cas.”

 

 

They walk over the molten gold and through the slowly raging tide, hand-in-hand.

Together.

 


End file.
